Arabella

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘No matter: send your maid home! Ulysses adds his entreaties to mine.’

  As Ulysses chose this moment to scratch one ear, this made her laugh.

  ‘Mere bashfulness,’ explained Mr Beaumaris, stretching down his hand. ‘Come!’

  ‘Very well – since Ulysses wishes it so much!’ she said, taking his hand, and climbing into the curricle. ‘Mr Beaumaris will see me home, Maria.’

  He spread a light rug across her knees, and said over his shoulder: ‘I have recalled, Clayton, that I need something from the chemist’s. Go and buy me a – a gum-plaster! You may walk home.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the groom, at his most wooden, and sprang down into the road.

  ‘A gum-plaster?’ echoed Arabella, turning wide eyes of astonishment upon Mr Beaumaris. ‘What in the world can you want with such a thing, sir?’

  ‘Rheumatism,’ said Mr Beaumaris defiantly, setting his horses in motion.

  ‘You? Oh, no, you must be quizzing me!’

  ‘Not at all. I was merely seeking an excuse to be rid of Clayton. I hope Ulysses will prove himself an adequate chaperon. I have something to say to you, Miss Tallant, for which I do not desire an audience.’

  She had been stroking the dog, but her hands were stilled at this, and the colour receded from her cheeks. Rather breathlessly, she asked: ‘What is it?’

  ‘Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

  She was stunned, and for a moment could not utter a word. When she was able to control her voice a little, she said: ‘I think you must be quizzing me.’

  ‘You must know that I am not.’

  She trembled. ‘Yes, yes, let us say that that was all it was, if you please! I am very much obliged to you, but I cannot marry you!’

  ‘May I know why you cannot, Miss Tallant?’

  She was afraid that she was about to burst into tears, and answered in a shaken tone: ‘There are many reasons. Pray believe it is impossible!’

  ‘Are you quite sure that these reasons are insuperable?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite, quite sure! Oh, please do not urge me further! I had never dreamed – it never entered my head – I would not for the world have given you cause to suppose – Oh, please say no more, sir!’

  He bowed, and was silent. She sat staring down at her clasped hands in great agitation of spirit, her mind in a turmoil, tossed between surprise at such a declaration, coming from one whom she had believed to have been merely amusing himself, and the shock of realising, for the first time, that there was no one she would rather marry than Mr Beaumaris.

  After a slight pause, he said in his usual calm way: ‘I believe there is always a little awkwardness attached to such situations as this in which we now find ourselves. We must strive not to allow it to overcome us. Is Lady Bridlington’s ball to rank amongst the season’s greatest squeezes?’

  She was grateful to him for easing the tension, and all the discomfort of the moment, and tried to reply naturally. ‘Yes, indeed, it is! I am sure quite three hundred cards of invitation have been sent out. Shall – shall you find time to look in, I wonder?’

  ‘Yes, and shall hope that even though you will not marry me you may be persuaded to dance with me.’

  She replied she scarcely knew what: it was largely inaudible. He shot a quick look at her averted profile, hesitated, and then said nothing. They had reached Park Street by this time, and in another moment he had handed her down from the curricle.

  ‘Do not come with me to the door! I know you do not like to leave your horses!’ she said, in a hurried tone. ‘Good-bye! I shall see you at the ball.’

  He waited until he had seen her admitted into the house, and then got into the curricle again, and drove off. Ulysses nudged his nose under his arm. ‘Thank you,’ he said dryly. ‘Do you think I am unreasonable to wish that she would trust me enough to tell me the truth?’

  Ulysses sighed heavily; he was rather sleepy after his day in this country.

  ‘I suppose I shall end by telling her that I have known it all along. And yet – Yes, Ulysses, I am quite unreasonable. Did it seem to you that she was not as indifferent to me as she would have had me believe?’

  Understanding that something was expected of him, his admirer uttered a sound between a yelp and a bark, and furiously wagged his tail.

  ‘You feel that I should persevere?’ said Mr Beaumaris. ‘I was, in fact, too precipitate. You may be right. But if she had cared at all, would she not have told me the truth?’

  Ulysses sneezed.

  ‘At all events,’ remarked Mr Beaumaris, ‘she was undoubtedly pleased with me for bringing you out with me.’

  Whether it was due to this circumstance, or to Ulysses’ unshakeable conviction that he was born to be a carriage-dog, Mr Beaumaris continued to take him about. Those of his intimates who saw Ulysses, once they had recovered from the initial shock, were of the opinion that the Nonpareil was practising some mysterious jest on society, and only one earnest imitator went so far as to adopt an animal of mixed parentage to ride in his own carriage. He thought that if the Nonpareil was setting a new fashion it would become so much the rage that it might be difficult hereafter to acquire a suitable mongrel. But Mr Warkworth, a more profound thinker, censured this act as being rash and unconsidered. ‘Remember when the Nonpareil wore a dandelion in his buttonhole three days running?’ he said darkly. ‘Remember the kick-up there was, with every saphead in town running round to all the flower-women for dandelions, which they hadn’t got, of course. Stands to reason you couldn’t buy dandelions! Why, poor Geoffrey drove all the way to Esher looking for one, and Altringham went to the trouble of rooting up half-a-dozen out of Richmond Park, and having a set-to with the keeper over it, and then planting ’em in his window-boxes. Good idea, if they had become the mode: clever fellow, Altringham! – but of course the Nonpareil was only hoaxing us! Once he had the whole lot of us decked out with them, he never wore one again, and a precious set of gudgeons we looked! Playing the same trick again, if you ask me!’

  Only in one quarter did unhappy results arise from the elevation of Ulysses. The Honourable Frederick Byng, who had for years been known by the sobriquet of Poodle Byng from his habit of driving everywhere with a very highly-bred and exquisitely shaved poodle sitting up beside him, encountered Mr Beaumaris in Piccadilly one afternoon, and no sooner clapped eyes on his disreputable companion than he pulled up his horses all standing, and spluttered out: ‘What the devil – ?’

  Mr Beaumaris reined in his own pair, and looked enquiringly over his shoulder. Mr Byng, his florid countenance suffused by an angry flush, was engaged in backing his curricle, jabbing at his horses’ mouths in a way that showed how greatly moved he was. Once alongside the other curricle, he glared at Mr Beaumaris, and demanded an explanation.

  ‘Explanation of what?’ said Mr Beaumaris. ‘If you don’t take care, you’ll go off in an apoplexy one of these days, Poodle! What’s the matter?’

  Mr Byng pointed a trembling finger at Ulysses. ‘What’s the meaning of that?’ he asked belligerently. ‘If you think I’ll swallow any such damned insult – !’

  He was interrupted. The two dogs, who had been eyeing one another measuringly from their respective vehicles, suddenly succumbed to a mutual hatred, uttered two simultaneous snarls, and leaped for one another’s throats. Since the curricles were too far apart to allow them to come to grips, they were obliged to vent their feelings in a series of hysterical objurgations, threats, and abuse, which drowned the rest of Mr Byng’s furious speech.

  Mr Beaumaris, holding Ulysses by the scruff of his neck, laughed so much that he could hardly speak: a circumstance which did nothing to mollify the outraged Mr Byng. He began to say that he should know how to answer an attempt to make him ridiculous, but was obliged to break off in order to command his dog to be quiet.

  ‘No, no, Poodle, don’t call me out!�
�� said Mr Beaumaris, his shoulders still shaking. ‘Really, I had no such intention! Besides, we should only make fools of ourselves, going out to Paddington in the cold dawn to exchange shots over a pair of dogs!’

  Mr Byng hesitated. There was much in what Mr Beaumaris said; moreover Mr Beaumaris was acknowledged to be one of the finest shots in England, and to call him out for a mere trifle would be an act of sheer foolhardiness. He said suspiciously: ‘If you’re not doing it to make a laughing-stock of me, why are you doing it?’

  ‘Hush, Poodle, hush! You are treading on delicate ground!’ said Mr Beaumaris. ‘I cannot bandy a lady’s name about in the open street!’

  ‘What lady? I don’t believe a word of it! Why can’t you make that damned mongrel be quiet?’

  In lamentable contrast to his well-trained adversary, who was now seated virtuously beside his master again, and affecting a maddening deafness, Ulysses, convinced that he had cowed the contemptible dandy, was hurling extremely ignoble taunts at him. Mr Beaumaris cuffed him, but although he cowered under the avenging hand he was quite unrepentant, and resumed his threats with unabated fervour.

  ‘It is all jealousy, Poodle!’ Mr Beaumaris said soothingly. ‘The hatred of the vulgar for the aristocrat! I think we had better part, don’t you?’

  Mr Byng gave an angry snort, and drove off. Mr Beaumaris released Ulysses, who shook himself, sighed his satisfaction, and looked up for approbation. ‘Yes, you will, I perceive, ruin me yet,’ said Mr Beaumaris severely. ‘If I am any judge of the matter, you picked your language up in the back-slums, and have probably been the associate of dustmen, coal-heavers, bruisers, and other such low persons! You are quite unfit for polite circles.’

  Ulysses lolled his tongue out, and grinned cheerfully.

  ‘At the same time,’ said Mr Beaumaris, relenting, ‘I daresay you would have made mincemeat of the creature, and I must own that I am not entirely out of sympathy with you. But poor Poodle will certainly cut me for a week at least.’

  However, at the end of five days Mr Byng unbent, adopting a tolerant attitude towards Ulysses. It had been borne in upon him that to drive past the Nonpareil’s curricle, staring rigidly ahead, was provocative of just the amusement amongst his acquaintances which he particularly wished to discourage.

  Mr Beaumaris and Miss Tallant met again in the dazzling splendour of the Circular Room at Carlton House, on the night of the Regent’s Dress-party. Arabella was so much impressed by the elegance of the sky-blue draperies, and the almost intolerable glare of a huge cut-glass chandelier, reflected, with its myriads of candles, in four large pier-glasses, that she momentarily forgot her last meeting with Mr Beaumaris, and greeted him by saying impulsively: ‘How do you do? I have never seen anything like it in my life! Each room is more magnificent than the last!’

  He smiled. ‘Ah, but have you yet penetrated to the Conservatory, Miss Tallant? Our Royal host’s chef d’oeuvre, believe me! Let me take you there!’

  By this time she had recollected under what circumstances they had parted, so short a time previously, and her colour had risen. Many tears had been shed over the unhappy circumstance which had made it impossible for her to accept Mr Beaumaris’s suit, and it had required all the excitement of a party at Carlton House to make her forget for one evening that she was the most miserable girl alive. She hesitated now, but Lady Bridlington was nodding and beaming, so she placed her hand on Mr Beaumaris’s arm, and went with him through a bewildering number of apartments, all full of people, up the grand stairway, and through several saloons and antechambers. In the intervals of bowing to acquaintances, and occasionally exchanging a word of greeting, Mr Beaumaris entertained her with an account of Ulysses’ quarrel with Mr Byng’s poodle, and this made her laugh so much that a good deal of her constraint vanished. The Conservatory made her open her eyes very wide indeed, as well it might. Mr Beaumaris watched her, a look of amusement in his face, while she gazed silently round the extraordinary structure. Finally, she drew a breath, and uttered one of her unexpectedly candid remarks. ‘Well, I don’t know why he should call it a Conservatory, for it is a great deal more like a cathedral, and a very bad one too!’ she said.

  He was delighted. ‘I thought you would be pleased with it,’ he said, with deceptive gravity.

  ‘I am not at all pleased with it,’ replied Arabella severely. ‘Why is there a veil over that statue?’

  Mr Beaumaris levelled his glass at Venus Asleep, under a shroud of light gauze. ‘I can’t imagine,’ he confessed. ‘No doubt one of Prinny’s flashes of taste. Would you like to ask him? Shall I take you to find him?’

  Arabella declined the offer hastily. The Regent, an excellent host, had already managed to spend a minute or two in chat with nearly every one of his guests, and although Arabella was storing up the gracious words he had uttered to her, and meant to send home to the Vicarage an exact account of his amiability, she found conversation with such an exalted personage rather overpowering. So Mr Beaumaris took her back to Lady Bridlington, and after staying beside her for a few minutes was buttonholed by a gentleman in very tight satin knee-breeches, who lisped that the Duchess of Edgeware commanded his instant attendance. He bowed, therefore, to Arabella, and moved away, and although she several times afterwards caught a glimpse of him, he was always engaged with friends, and did not again approach her. The rooms began to seem hot, and overcrowded; the company the most boring set of people imaginable; and the vivacious, restless, and scintillating Lady Jersey, who flirted with Mr Beaumaris for quite twenty minutes, an odious creature.

  Lady Bridlington’s ball was the next social event of importance. This promised to be an event of more than ordinary brilliance, and although the late Lord Bridlington, to gratify an ambitious bride, had added a ballroom and a conservatory to the back of the house, it seemed unlikely that all the guests who had accepted her ladyship’s invitation could be accommodated without a degree of overcrowding so uncomfortable as to mark the evening as an outstanding success. An excellent band had been engaged for the dancing, Pandean pipes were to play during the supper, extra servants were hired, police-officers and link-boys warned to make Park Street their special objective, and refreshments to supplement the efforts of Lady Bridlington’s distracted cook ordered from Gunter’s. For days before the event, housemaids were busy moving furniture, polishing the crystal chandeliers, washing the hundreds of spare glasses unearthed from a storeroom in the basement, counting and recounting plates and cutlery, and generally creating an atmosphere of bustle and unrest in the house. Lord Bridlington, who combined an inclination for ceremonious hospitality with a naturally frugal mind, was torn between complacency at having drawn to his house all the most fashionable persons who adorned the ton, and a growing conviction that the cost of the party would be enormous. The bill for wax candles alone threatened to rise to astronomical heights, and not his most optimistic calculations of the number of glasses of champagne likely to be drunk reduced the magnums that must be ordered to a total he could contemplate with anything but gloom. But his self-esteem was too great to allow of his contemplating for more than a very few minutes the expedient of eking out the precious liquor by making it into an iced cup. Cups there must certainly be, as well as lemonade, orgeat, and such milder beverages as would please the ladies, but unless the party were to fall under the stigma of having been but a shabby affair after all the best champagne must flow throughout the evening in unlimited quantities. His mind not being of an order to question his own consequence, his gratification on the whole outweighed his misgivings, and if a suspicion did enter his head that he had Arabella to thank for the flattering number of acceptances which poured into the house, he was easily able to banish it. His mother, rather shrewder than he, gave honour where it was due, and, in a fit of reckless extravagance, was moved to order a new gown for Arabella from her own expensive dressmaker. But she was not, after all, so sadly out of pocket over the transaction, since a very few words
whispered into the ear of Mme Dumaine were enough to convince that astute woman of business that the réclame of designing a toilette for the great Miss Tallant would fully justify her in making a substantial reduction in the price of a gown of figured lace over a white satin robe, with short, full, plaited sleeves, fastened down the front with pearl buttons to match the edging of pearls to the overdress. Arabella, ruefully surveying the depredations caused by a succession of parties to her glove-drawer, was obliged to purchase a new pair of long white gloves, as well as new satin sandals, and a length of silver net to drape round her shoulders in the style known as à l’Ariane. There was not very much left, by this time, of the Squire’s handsome present to her; and when she considered how impossible her own folly had made it for her to requite her family’s generosity in the only way open to a personable young female, she was overcome by feelings of guilt and remorse, and could not refrain from shedding tears. Nor could she refrain from indulging her fancy with the contemplation of the happiness which might even now have been hers, had she not allowed her temper to lead her so grossly to deceive Mr Beaumaris. This was a thought more bitter than all the rest, and it was only by the resolute exercise of her commonsense that she was able to regain some degree of calm. It was not to be supposed that the haughty Mr Beaumaris, related as he was to so many noble houses, so distinguished in his bearing, so much courted, and so much pursued, would ever have looked twice at a girl from a country Vicarage, with neither fortune nor connection to recommend her to his notice.

  It was therefore with mixed feelings that Arabella awaited the arrival of the first guests on the appointed night. Lady Bridlington, thinking that she looked a little hagged (as well she might, after a week of such nerve-racking preparation) had tried to persuade her to allow Miss Crowle to rub a little – a very little! – rouge into her cheeks, but after one look at the result of this delicate operation Arabella had washed it away, declaring that never would she employ such aids to beauty as must, could he but see them, destroy for ever Papa’s affection for his eldest daughter. Lady Bridlington pointed out, very reasonably, that there could be no fear of Papa’s seeing them, but as Arabella remained adamant, and showed alarming signs of being about to burst into tears, she pressed her no more, consoling herself with the reflection that even without her usual blooming colour her goddaughter could not fail to appear lovely in the exquisite gown of Mme Dumaine’s making.